ground had stopped shaking, at least for now. The beach below was covered with waterweeds deposited by the wave. Wet sand had been lifted up onto the rocky slope, partially covering it. A litter of boulders overlay the ground below.

Garios scanned the beach. There was no sign of Karshirl.

His heart sank. Her body must have been washed out with the receding wave.

Garios’s right leg was battered, and he had a shallow gash diagonally across his belly. Maneuvering carefully, so as not to lose his precarious footing, he turned around and looked back up the beach, toward the cliff face and the sky tower…

…which was…

My God!

Vibrating.

Oscillating.

Like a plucked string. Back and forth.

What if it fell down? What if the tower collapsed?

God protect us!

God protect Novato!

*19*

Toroca was the discoverer of evolution. As the current conflict with the Others bloodily demonstrated, the Quintaglios, through the traditional culling process, had not been selecting for the most desirable traits. In trying to devise a new selection criterion, Toroca had spent considerable time in creches, learning about the process of hatching and the early days of childhood.

He hadn’t expected that information to have any practical applications for him personally. But now the little Other eggling was making loud peeping sounds. It was hungry.

Creche workers could regurgitate at will, feeding hatchlings directly from their mouths. Toroca had no idea how to voluntarily bring food back up; it was said a fist inserted in the back of the throat could trigger such a reaction, but the accompanying convulsion might cause the jaws to snap shut, severing one’s arm just below the elbow. Instead, Toroca took little cubes of dried hornface meat in his mouth and, glad that no one was around to see the disgusting sight, chewed the meat by popping it from side to side with his tongue as he slid his jaws forward and back. When the meat was well worked over, he opened his mouth wide and, using his fingers to help dislodge it, collected the meat in a bowl. He poured some water onto it and mixed it together until he had a soft mass. He then put the bowl on the floor near the peeping eggling. The baby was stumbling about.

Nothing happened. Toroca had expected the eggling to smell the concoction and make his way over to it. Perhaps it was the gastric odor in regurgitated food that attracted infant Quintaglios; this meat had no such pungent odor. Toroca crouched on the floor and used his left hand to scoop up some of the meal he’d made and presented it directly to the eggling. He used his other hand to gently prod the baby toward the food. Once its little yellow muzzle was up against the stuff in Toroca’s hand, the baby apparently realized what it was and began to use its tongue to maneuver bits of it into its mouth. Toroca crouched contentedly as the hatchling ate, gently stroking the baby’s back with his free hand.

Afsan looked haggard. His tail seemed stiff and dead, one of the claws on his left hand was sticking out as if he’d lost conscious control of it, his head was tipped slightly forward, and his muzzle hung half-open as though the effort of keeping his teeth covered, something protocol required, was too much for him. The little membranes at the corners of his mouth were that ashen color one gets when feverish. It was clear that he was exhausted.

Mokleb dipped a fingerclaw into the pot of ink she’d brought with her and began the transcript of the day’s session. Writing her words down as they were spoken, she said: "We’ve come close to the territory of this issue before, but never actually crossed the boundaries. Some call you Sal-Afsan, some just Afsan, and some call you by a third name: The One."

Afsan sighed. "You really have a thing about names, don’t you?"

"Do I?" Mokleb’s inner eyelids blinked. "Well, I guess I do, at that. They are an important part of our identity, Afsan. And, as I said, some call you by a special name: The One."

"And some call me fat-head, among other things."

Mokleb refrained from clicking her teeth. "I’m curious about the effect it has on you to be called The One. It’s a reference to the prophecy made by the ancient hunter Lubal, isn’t it? When she was dying after being gored by a hornface, she said" — Mokleb topped transcribing her own words long enough to find the quote she had written down — "‘A hunter will come greater than myself, and this hunter will be a male — yes, a male — and he shall lead you on the greatest hunt of all.’"

"Yes, that was the prophecy," said Afsan. A pause. "I don’t believe in prophecy."

"Many take your proposed journey to the stars to be the great hunt Lubal spoke of."

Afsan waved a hand dismissively. "Metaphor again. You can make anything mean anything else."

Mokleb read from her notes once more. "And yet Lubal also said, ’One will come among you to herald the end; heed him, for those who do not are doomed.’ Isn’t that your story in miniature? You did herald the end of the world, and had we not listened to you and begun work toward the exodus, we would indeed have been doomed."

Afsan, prone on his boulder, made a noncommittal grunt.

"And," continued Mokleb, "Lubal said, ’The One will defeat demons of the land and of the water; blood from his kills will soak the soil and stain the River.’ You did kill the giant thunderbeast and you also slew the water serpent, ah," — checking notes once more — "Kal-ta-goot."

"I’d forgotten that Lubal had said that," said Afsan. "It’s been an awfully long time since I’ve been able to read the Book of Lubal, after all, and…"

"And?"

"And, well, it’s not the sort of thing my apprentice would expect me to ask her to read to me."

Mokleb inventoried her possible responses, chose a click of the teeth. "No, I suppose that’s true."

"In any event, the thunderbeast wasn’t a demon. And Kal-ta-goot … well, chasing it was what allowed the Dasheter to complete the first circumnavigation of the globe. If anything, Kal-ta-goot was a savior."

"Var-Keenir would not agree."

"As much as I like and admire the old sailor, Keenir and I often disagree."

Mokleb was silent.

"Anyway, Mokleb, this is just another case of you forcing the words to mean something they don’t really say. I killed no demons."

"‘Demons,’" repeated Mokleb thoughtfully. "Strictly speaking, demons are defined as those who can lie in the light of day."

"Exactly. And I’ve never killed anyone who could do that. I’ve never even known anyone who could…"

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"Once again, you are hiding your thoughts, Afsan. I must know what you are thinking if I’m to help you."

"Well, it’s just that Det-Yenalb, the priest who put out my eyes — I’d never thought about it this way before, but he once hinted to me that he could lie in the light of day. He implied that it went with being a successful priest. I never knew whether he was serious about it, or was just trying to frighten me, but…"

"Yes?"

"He was killed in 7110, during the skirmish between the palace loyal and the Lubalites. I didn’t kill him myself, but, well, if he could lie without his muzzle turning blue, then I suppose he was demon and, in a way, he was killed in my name."

"And in any event," said Mokleb, looking down at her notes, "the word Lubal used was ’defeat,’ not ’kill.’ You personally did indeed defeat Det-Yenalb, for society now pursues your goal of spaceflight instead of following Yenalb’s teachings." She paused. "Besides, what about all your great hunts?"

"All of them? There were only three of any significance before I lost my sight."

"But such hunts!" said Mokleb. "The giant thunderbeast. Kal-ta-goot. And a fangjaw!"